by Merry Farmer
“Didn’t see it,” he muttered. He made far too much noise as he scraped the chair back to the table before hurrying on to the window. Then he banged open the shutters and thrust his head out into the June air. “Oy!” he called up to the North Room.
“Jack!” She hissed. He ignored her. “Ssh!”
He whistled, focused on the window above. She glanced over her shoulder, panic rising through her stomach to her throat. There was no point in talking to their friends if Jack’s noise got them caught.
Sparing one brief glance at him hanging so far out the window that a strong wind could have blown him to his death, she dashed into the hall. When she reached the landing she climbed a few stairs to listen to the conversation of the guards to judge if they’d been overheard. The tone of the conversation had changed. They still chattered, but it was no longer the dull drone of bored men.
Jack braced himself on the sill and studied the window above him. The shutters were open to let the cooling night breeze in. “Oy! MP!” He was a blithering fool for making so much noise, but he couldn’t help himself.
He shifted against the windowsill and opened his mouth to call again when a shadow appeared at the window. He burst into a grin.
“Jack! What are you doing?” Madeline’s close-cropped hair and slender shoulders with a gray shawl around them popped through the window.
Her face was bathed in shadow. “I’m tryin’ to talk to you,” he drawled, his heart light enough to give him wings.
She giggled. In light of the circumstances it was enough to make him lose his grip, and a lot more. “Jack, you shouldn’t be here. If the guards catch you….”
“Nah. Them guards’ll never catch me. Hold on.” He ducked back into the room and unwound the rope from his waist. A large knot had been tied in one end. He leaned out the window holding the rope. “Think you can catch this?”
“I…,” Madeline stammered then nodded with another giggle.
Jack swung the rope and tossed the knot up to Madeline. She missed. “’S alright. Try again.” He swung again. This time she caught it.
“Now what do I do?”
“Tie it to somethin’ heavy.”
She disappeared into the room and Jack let the rope slide through his hands as she found something to tie it to. The rope jerked for several seconds as she worked, then went still. She reappeared at the window. “It’s tied to the bed.”
Bloody good choice.
“Right. I’m comin’ up.”
“Jack, no! It’s too-”
Madeline’s protests were in vain. Before she could finish he had heaved himself hand over hand until he gripped the outside of her windowsill, face inches from hers.
“Oy, lovely evenin’ we’re havin’.” He grinned like a fool as Madeline slapped her hands to her mouth. The North Room was small but richly decorated. Sister Bernadette lay in its one large bed and both she and Madeline wore threadbare nightdresses. A small pile of dishes from their evening meal still sat on the table and their habits were folded across the chest at the foot of the bed. “Nice place you got here.”
“Young man,” Sister Bernadette’s voice wavered as she struggled to sit up, “you will remove yourself from our window at once.”
A streak of temper ruined Jack’s fun. “I’m tryin’ to organize your rescue.”
“Your efforts are not appropriate.” She flicked a glance to Madeline that flushed the young woman’s cheeks scarlet. “We will be released in good time.”
Jack blew out a breath, knuckles white on the windowsill and arms beginning to ache. “From what I hear Buxton’s not the sort to let his guests give him the slip.”
Sister Bernadette was unruffled. “Sir Crispin has given us his word-” She stopped short at Jack’s derogatory snort and stared hard at him. He withered under her look.
Jack glanced to Madeline, drawing her closer with a flick of his head. “How is she? Only, Aubrey said she’s hurt.”
Madeline’s lips pinched in worry. “I think it’s worse than she’s letting on. She’s been stoic but,” she glanced over her shoulder, “she’s not eating much and her ribs are too sore to touch. If I could just get her back to the convent. We have a hospital there.”
“Right.” Jack nodded, adjusting his grip on the ledge and leaning closer still. “If we could just-”
“That’s quite enough of that, young man!” Sister Bernadette misinterpreted his closeness to Madeline.
“Look, I’m sorry I-” His words caught in his throat as Sister Bernadette leaned over and began picking at the knot tying the rope to the bedpost. “You’d never!”
“I suggest, Mr. Tanner, that you descend before I free this knot.”
“Bloody hell,” Jack muttered under his breath, earning a gasp from Madeline. His muscles ached as he clasped the rope.
“Wait! Jack!” Madeline dashed to the bedside table to grab a folded scrap of parchment then flew back to the window. Jack’s wide eyes met hers. “I … I wasn’t sure how I was going to be able to get this to you.” She held the letter out to him.
He stared at it, hands tight around the rope. “Right.” The rope jerked against the windowsill. Panicked, Madeline shook the letter for a moment before cramming it into his mouth. He raised his eyebrows at her then shimmied back to the window below.
The rope shook as he reached the window and swung for the ledge. He cursed and the letter spilled out of his mouth. For half a second he watched it flutter down to the garden below and hissed a louder curse. He grabbed the windowsill and pulled himself into the room as the rope came loose and slithered out the upper window.
As he thumped to the floor Madeline screamed.
Aubrey stood on the landing at the base of the stairs, listening to the guards. They paused. She swallowed and climbed a few more stairs. Slowly the conversation resumed. She snuck higher. The conversation paused again.
“… probably just praying or something.”
“Praying? At this time of night?”
Aubrey swallowed and climbed as high as she could without being seen.
“I dunno, maybe just talking. Nuns can talk, can’t they.”
“We should check on them.” A chair clattered as someone stood. Heavy footsteps followed.
She surged into action, mounting the last few steps into the light of the hallway with as calm an expression as she could manage. The guards stopped what they were doing. The one who had jumped up from his stool and was only feet from the door to the North Room paused and turned to her. The others scrambled to their feet and two or three of them reached for their weapons.
“What are you doing here?”
“I … I want to see the nuns,” she sputtered.
The guard frowned and marched towards her. “They’re to have no visitors.”
“I want to … to make my confession.” She hoped people gave confessions to nuns. Whatever Jack was up to he’d better finish it soon.
“It’s the middle of the night?”
“It’s not that late,” she kept her voice as quiet as she could, listening for more noise from the room, from below.
“It’s not at that,” one of the other guards shrugged.
“If she wants to make a confession,” another figured, “maybe we should let her.”
“My lady, I don’t think-”
The door at the top of the stairs crashed open and the glowering face of Crispin appeared in the doorway. “I said no talking while on duty!” he ordered in a hushed shout. “Buxton will have-” He saw Aubrey and blinked in shock.
She saw him as well. Lots of him. He stood in the doorway wearing nothing but barely fastened smallclothes. His chest was bare, broad and well-defined with just a small amount of black hair that grew darker and thicker in a line down his stomach and abdomen. The muscles of his arms stood out under his pale skin as he gripped the doorframe. Her mouth dropped open and the butterflies in Aubrey’s stomach migrated much lower. She stood transfixed, taking him in.
“Aubrey,” h
e recovered enough to speak her name. His eyes met hers and held for a moment before he glanced down at himself, then pulled back into the room, slamming the door.
She shut her mouth, blushing from head to toe. The guards stared at her with varying degrees of surprise and amusement. Her hands worked at her sides and she wished to God she had her sword. Then the door to Crispin’s room swung open again. He had thrown a shirt over his head and chausses on his legs. His hair was tousled and his pale face was splashed with rose. He didn’t meet her eyes when she glanced over to him.
“What are you doing here?”
“She wants to see the nuns,” one of the guards informed him, a note of understanding dawning on his face as he glanced between Crispin and Aubrey. He withered into silence when Crispin glared at him. All of the guards suddenly found something more interesting to look at.
“It’s late, Aubrey.” He turned to her, hands stiff at his sides.
“I know,” Aubrey stammered, willing herself to look at his face instead of his skin. “I … just.…” She lost her words and found herself staring at his chest. The shirt was unlaced and she could still see a significant amount of flesh, small, taut nipples, and a thick scar cutting diagonally from his collarbone to his sternum. She bit her lip, mouth watering.
Crispin glanced again to the guards, all eight of them crowding the hall, and frowned. “Come inside.” He stepped back and extended a hand into his room.
Aubrey didn’t hesitate before rushing past him and into the small room, relieved to be away from judging eyes. She stopped in the center of the chamber and studied it, surprised that all it contained was a bed, a chest, a table and one chair, and a small stand with a pitcher. She hadn’t expected Crispin’s room to look like a cell. There weren’t even hangings on the walls and all that sat on the mantle over the great fireplace was his sword and the wolf-head dagger. The bedclothes on his bed were bunched to one side, confirming her suspicion that the noise in the hall had woken him.
“I wanted to talk to my friends.” She forced her eyes away from the bed but didn’t feel any more comfortable when they shifted to him as he shut the door.
“Aubrey, it’s late.” He rubbed his forehead, still not looking at her.
“I know, but I can’t sleep. I have to know that they’re alright.” It was true enough.
“They’re fine.”
Silence fell. She studied the hard lines of his face as he struggled to raise his eyes to hers. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it. She leaned closer to him, eyes slipping to the scar on his chest. The fluttering in places she didn’t want to think about deepened.
“I do not want you wandering around unaccompanied,” his deep voice only stirred the humming in her body. “Not when there is a murderer on the loose or when Buxton-”
“Has anyone been killed?” Maybe violent death could distract her from these sensations. Maybe.
“No.”
His return to a gruffness snapped her back to the mischief of the night. “They’re not safe, Crispin. I know they’re not safe.”
“Aubrey.” He took a step closer.
She shook her head and went on. “They’re only nuns. They can’t protect themselves. They can’t even speak for themselves. Not that Buxton would listen.”
“Aubrey, please.”
“And no one will help me help them, Crispin!”
His eyes changed when she turned her desperate plea to him. His face softened. His eyes glowed. She was suddenly aware of the heat radiating from him. His chest rose and fell in the firelight. For a heartbeat she thought she saw his eyes flicker to the bed. She swallowed. It must be her imagination. He stood so close that she could have reached out a hand and touched his fascinating, scarred chest. He would let her touch him. He would let her. And then what?
“Aubrey.” Her name on his lips held volumes. His brow furrowed in frustration. His hands reached for hers. “I will-”
A shrill scream from the next room shattered the moment. Aubrey gasped and jumped, blood rushing back to her limbs. Crispin’s face darkened in a flash and he spun to reach for the dagger on the mantle. He lunged for the door and out into the hallway.
The guards were all on their feet, the door to the North Room crashing open as Aubrey rushed out into the hall on Crispin’s heels. A guard stopped her as Crispin ran into the room. “Are you safe?” she heard his voice boom.
“Yes, Sir Crispin,” Sister Bernadette’s voice answered as Aubrey strained to pull herself out of the guard’s hold. “Sister Mary Peter was startled by a bat that flew too close to the window.”
Aubrey went limp. She heard a scuffle from the floor below and squeezed her eyes shut. A moment of silence was followed by Crispin charging into the hallway. “Get into my room and lock the door!” he ordered her as quietly as he could, glancing over his shoulder to the door to Buxton’s room.
“You can’t-”
“Do it!”
Her mouth opened in indignation but he didn’t stay to face her. He charged down the stairs.
“Right, you, come on.” The guard who held her pushed her towards Crispin’s door.
Jack. Crispin would find him.
She stomped on the guard’s foot. He let her go with a sharp curse. Once free she lunged for the stairs then hesitated. The door to the North Room was still open. She feinted away from the guard who tried to grab her arm and pivoted around another to get to the North Room.
“Madeline!” she called as she caught a glimpse of her distraught friend.
The guards reacted in near unison. One slammed the door to the North Room shut while two others jumped to guard it and the one closest to her tried again to grab her. She slammed an elbow in his face and sprinted for the stairs. Another swiped at her long braid as she dodged out of his reach and stumbled down the first few steps.
“What the hell is going on out here?” Buxton’s voice split into the scene as she rounded the corner and nearly fell to the landing. She didn’t wait to hear what Buxton had to say. Heart pounding and lungs stinging as she gasped for breath, she picked up her skirts and raced down the stairs.
Crispin caught a glimpse of ginger hair one floor from the main hall. By the time he jumped the last few stairs into the corridor the red-haired man was halfway to the castle’s front door. His legs were longer than the red-haired man’s. He should have caught him before he escaped, but the man was fast. He was down the stairs and in the courtyard when Crispin burst through the door.
Instead of making for the gate and the safety of the city the man cut to the side and bolted towards the stables. Crispin surged after him, gaining as he flew past the castle’s out buildings and through the archway into the garden. The man slowed in the dark garden. Crispin knew he had him. Without warning the red-haired man dove for the ground, scooping up something small and flat. Crispin lunged and tackled him.
The air heaved out of both of their lungs as they slammed face down in a clump of fragrant herbs. “Oy!” the man wheezed as he sucked in a breath.
Crispin pushed himself to his knees and grabbed the man’s shoulders, spinning him around before slamming him to the damp dirt.
“Who are you!” He slipped his left hand to the man’s throat. The man opened his mouth and emitted a choked gurgle. His gray eyes bulged, but his fist stayed tight around the parchment in his hand.
A rush of sense made Crispin ease up on the man’s throat and sit back. His eyes flickered to the parchment. He grabbed it with his left hand and when the man struggled in protest he lay the blade of his dagger against his bruised throat.
“ʻS mine!” the ginger-haired man coughed and tried to snatch at the letter in spite of the blade digging in.
Crispin held it out of his reach. Digging a knee into the man’s gut to hold him, he tore open the letter. “Jack,” he growled when he read the opening. He scanned to the bottom of the letter. “Madeline?”
“Oy! Give that back!”
Jack surged against him again. Crispin grabbed a handf
ul of his shirt then squatted and stood, wrenching Jack to his feet. Recognition hit him. He was one of Buxton’s horse thieves. He’d escaped when Windale escaped. And now he was in league with Aubrey? His stomach twisted in dread as he demanded, “What are you doing at the castle? What is your connection to Lady Aubrey?” He shook the man to keep him from settling.
“I’m helping her get to her friends!”
Crispin stopped shaking and stared at the man. The answer was honest. He crushed the letter in his hand. “And this?”
“MP gave it to me.”
Another honest answer. Crispin narrowed his eyes and searched Jack’s bold gray ones. “MP?”
“Madeline.” The man rolled his eyes and shook his head. He had balls. Crispin shook the letter open and read more. Sentimental platitudes mingled with expressions of devotion. “Oy, what’s it say, mate?”
Crispin’s brows shot to his forehead at the man’s coolness. The dagger was still only inches from his throat. “Read it yourself.” He thrust the letter at the man’s chest as he released him.
Jack scrambled to catch the letter. Crispin watched him, poised to snatch him again the second he ran. He didn’t run. He squinted at the letter in the moonlight, turning it one way then the other. The man couldn’t read.
“Are you a friend of Aubrey’s?” He narrowed his eyes at the peasant.
“Yeah.” Jack wasn’t interested in him. He sighed and folded the letter, glancing up to the top of the tower.
Details began to fit together in Crispin’s mind. He didn’t like the picture they painted. “Are you a friend of Ethan of Windale?”
Jack snorted a laugh and lowered his eyes to meet Crispin’s. “He thinks so.”
For a moment the whisper of the night breeze and chatter of insects wrapped itself around the garden. Crispin flexed his grip on the dagger. The man in front of him was the most artless he had ever come across. He had no idea how to deal with him. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you in the dungeon right now.”
